The Woman From Whirlpool
by PennyOfTheWild
Summary: [He was easy to love.] [When I grow up, Mito-sama, I want a love story just like yours.] Kushina muses on her mentor's life. A Mito-centric fic, told in pieces. Hashirama/Mito, for ncfan.
1. Part I

**A/N**: A couple of notes, before we begin:

1) The depiction of (Japanese) culture in this fic will be inaccurate in many ways; although I did do a lot of reading, I did end up taking artistic liberties with a great many details; however, it is not my intention to offend anyone and while I tried my best to remain true to the spirit of the culture that is depicted in Naruto if you feel as though there is something offensive, please understand that it was not my intention to offend.

2) This being a fic set in a time period we do not (as yet) know much about, there are characters I have introduced for the sake of creating a well-rounded (I hope) story. I won't call them 'original characters' per say because, as the current timeline stands, we know these people (e.g. Ino's grandparents) did exist - however, their names and situations are completely made up (although, in keeping with (my perception of) Kishimoto- sensei's style, I tried to introduce 'parallels' in personality. this might have also been due to sheer laziness DX).

3) I am of the school of thought that believes Kushina was on Sakumo Hatake's team. While this does not play a major role in this fic, it is mentioned.

4) Also: the depiction of Madara Uchiha - if you've any questions by the end of the fic, drop me a message and I will be pleased to answer.

5) Finally - while I write primarily to satsify the raging fangirl that resides within me, a little feedback goes a long way. If you like this piece (or even if you hate it), please leave a thought - the best kind being, of course, relevent concrit.

Now: on to the fic!

* * *

**The Woman from Whirlpool, Part I**

**Character(s):** Mito, Hashirama + Founders, Kushina, Minato

**Pairings:** Hashirama/Mito, Minato/Kushina

**Warnings:** Sensuality

**Dedication:** For ncfan, who left a comment that inspired me to try and see if I could really write Mito. I tried: now it is up to you to decide if I succeeded.

* * *

Her hair was still red, Kushina remembers later, faded, but red, as if determined to hold on to its vitality. And she was tall – taller than Kushina would have expected (had she thought to expect) – a straight-backed woman with ink-spattered hands who, despite her narrow shoulders and delicate wrists and tiny ankles exuded the kind of strength that seemed to defy mountains.

Kushina was twelve years old and a kunoichi; she knew all about strength.

She was sitting on the bed when Kushina entered, a scroll on her lap and another on the bed, her face furrowed with wrinkles (that still could not hide the graceful lines of her nose, her mouth, her eyes) and when Kushina came in, pushing the door open with uncharacteristic hesitation, she stood, sliding the scroll off her knees and coming forward.

"Kushina," she said, and her voice, rich with the timbre of Whirlpool humming beneath the Leaf, made Kushina's eyes fill and her heart ache.

"Hime-sama," Kushina sank into a bow, and Mito laughed.

When Kushina remembers the laugh, she remembers the feel of it, the clear ringing of bells, and the hand Mito placed on her cheek, papery skin and calloused fingers.

"Mito," Mito said, "to you," and then, "come sit with me," and she placed a hand between Kushina's shoulder blades and guided her to a seat.

Kushina can count the number of times she's been afraid on one hand – Minato says nothing fazes her – but she remembers the fear that sank into the pit of her stomach when Mito told her _her destiny,_ she called it – her heart pounded in her ears and her chest constricted as though someone were crushing her with a boulder.

Mito's eyes were ageless. "Love," she said, "you'll win with love. A vessel filled with love has no room for unhappiness."

Kushina had stared at her, speechless, for a moment. "And you?" she remembers the words tumbling out of her mouth as words were wont to do (with her), breathlessly. "Is that how it was with, Mito-sama?"

She watched Mito turn her face towards the window, weak winter sunlight drifting through the spotless glass panes. It opened out over the village, towards the mountain, where the first morning rays hit the Shodai's stone likeness, so that, if you were awake at sunrise, his face would be the first thing you would see.

When Kushina thinks back on it, she wonders if it – the window, the room, her seat - were chosen by chance.

"Me," Mito said, her voice light, musing. Her fingers rested on the back of her hand, closely clipped nails, an inkblot on her index finger and another on her thumb. "Oh." She looked out the window, a little smile on her face. "He was easy to love."

Kushina set her chin on the back of her hands. Mito's smile widened.

"Mine – it was an arranged marriage. They're not so common anymore, even in our village, but back then every respectable marriage was an arranged one. Clans built alliances through marriage. Families were brought closer – "

* * *

She is told she is lucky to have an escort at all: Whirlpool has barely been standing for a year; the village needs every man it has got –

Mito slides her hands into her sleeves and waits for her father's tirade to pass. Worry is making him brusque and quick to temper – his bark has always been worse than his bite – and besides, at no time has Mito even dreamt of answering back. Well-behaved young women never do, be they kunoichi or heiresses or fuinjutsu specialists who can blow a man apart by touching them on the back.

"I'm sorry, father," she says quietly, when Kaien Uzumaki stops to draw breath, "I didn't mean to presume."

"But Kami, I wish I could go with you," her father says suddenly, his voice thick, and Mito is drawn into his embrace, his arms crushing her kimono (later, Kaori, her attendant will, very strongly, reprimand her for the wrinkles crinkling the silk). He holds her at arm's length, surveying her face. Mito takes note of his eyes, bluer and brighter than usual. Her throat constricts "Mito – take care of yourself. Please."

"Yes, father."

Kaien reaches a hand into the sash around his waist and pulls out two sealed scrolls.

"The documentation formally announcing the alliance," he says, and gives her one of the scrolls. "And here's your marriage license." He places the other in her hand. "You shouldn't have any problems," he says. "I am told the Senju are going to honor our history."

He gives Mito a formal bow and she sinks into one of her own. "Thank you, father."

* * *

Sitting in the _norimono_ headed for the docks Mito opens the front of her kimono, and uses the sigil emblazoned over her sternum to seal the scrolls within herself.

Kaori is resting her silver-dark head against the curtained window, her eyes closed, asleep after the rushed commotion of the last week.

Mito folds the panels of her kimono flat and reties her obi, brushing ineffectually against the ink spatter over her knee. Ink always seems to find Mito; she is forever prey to blots and stains, and there is that one mark on her index finger that seems to have seeped into her skin, if her constant attempts to remove it are any witness.

Now she, too, leans back and closes her eyes. The journey to the dock will take half a day, and there will be a further day's crossing by boat, and another two days on foot, before she reaches her destination, and despite her father's words, Mito is not sure what kind of reception she is going to receive.

* * *

The morning of the fourth day Mito and her retainers leave the Tachigo Town Inn. It is the last leg of her journey, but she knows it is the first of a beginning.

She has been up since dawn, watching Kaori manage everything with her usual quiet efficiency; after giving the _norimono_ bearers the day's instructions she had come over to Mito, a worried frown creasing her eyebrows. Taking the hairbrush from Mito's hand she had proceeded to brush the snarls from Mito's dark, red hair.

"Mito-sama," she had said, "are you alright?", and Mito had told her she was no different than usual.

The reply hadn't seemed to satisfy Kaori, but after a near-lifetime of catering to Mito's moods she knows Mito's stubbornness has no equal, and so she had fallen silent, and within the next five minutes they were in the palanquin, the bearers had lifted it, and they were on their way.

Hidden Leaf. Mito whispers the name, tasting it on her tongue. Suitably foreign, she decides, and plucks at the fabric of her kimono. Today the outermost layer is a pale green, silver flowers blossoming all over the fabric, and her obi is silver, too, the cord a darker green than the kimono. She is wearing five layers, and she is roasting, and when she voiced the thought aloud Kaori informed her there would be twelve on the wedding day.

Mito decides she is a stronger woman than she thought she was. A lesser one, she is sure, would have fainted upon hearing something like that.

It is a beautiful day, Mito thinks.

The _norimono's_ curtains are drawn back, and Mito can hear the rustle of trees overhead and the crunch of footsteps on fallen leaves as the palanquin bearers traverse the dirt road winding between the giant oaks and cedar trees that, she is told, cover most of Fire Country's terrain. Their trunks are so wide ten men could stand behind one and not be seen; the foliage so thick sunlight reaches the ground in gold patches filtered with green, dappled patterns sweeping over their heads and hands and faces like water.

Mito holds her hand out the window and watches the variegated play of light and shadow over her fingers till Kaori tells her to sit down and not make a target of herself.

A birdsong trembles in the air – a thrush, Mito thinks, the cadences of its tune, soft and loud, an apt accompaniment to the whistle of the wind through the trees and the sound of sunshine.

Maybe, Mito tells herself, she can be happy here.

* * *

"Why," says Hashirama Senju, his voice thick with frustration, "are you being so difficult about this?" He doesn't usually feel the need to shout, but today, for some reason, he is fighting to keep from it.

He is sure it has something to do with the obstinate set to Madara Uchiha's shoulders and the fact that Tobirama just rolled his eyes and didn't even bother trying to hide it. They are going to be the death of him, Hashirama is sure, their combined tenacity sending him to an early grave.

"I don't see why I have to receive the delegation from Whirlpool," Madara tells him bluntly.

"Because you are _a part of this village _and – "

"I'm not the Hokage," Madara reminds him, "so really who you decide to make alliances with is none of my business."

"Yes, it is, because you helped _found_ the village and you're on the village council and if you had taken my advice in the first place you _would have been Hokage_ and any decisions I make have to have your approval –"

Maybe he can make a quick escape while his brother is otherwise occupied, Tobirama thinks, and begins edging closer to the door. He hears the knock on the door – more of a tap – and barely steps back before it is flung open by Sasuke Sarutobi's little boy, Hiruzen.

Tobirama has heard the four-year-old is a genius with ninjutsu, but it seems he is greatly lacking in the 'subtlety' and 'tact' departments because he announces, "in here! This is the Hokage's office!", and beckons a young woman into the room.

Whirlpool, Tobirama thinks, taking in the red hair, blue eyes and elaborate, ink-spattered kimono. It seems as though there wasn't a need for a fancy reception. He looks behind her, toward the hall, for the rest of the delegation, but there seems to be no-one else.

"I've had enough of this!" Madara growls, "you're so completely irrational!"

"I'm irrational?" Hashirama loses the fight against his temper. "If I'm irrational what does that make you? –wait a minute, Madara – we're not done here!"

Madara stalks out of the office, barely giving a passing glance to the Whirlpool delegate, and slams the door shut behind him, shooting Hiruzen a malevolent look and sending the boy rushing to get out of his way.

Hashirama squeezes the bridge of his nose.

"Excuse me," the girl – woman – says, and Hashirama looks up, noting her presence for the first time.

"Yes?"

She holds a scroll out to him. "I was told to give this to you," she says, and there is something in the tone of her voice, an aloofness, that makes Hashirama look at her more closely. His eyes widen, minutely.

And then the rest of the Whirlpool delegation - an older woman and a man who seems to be the ambassador – arrive.

* * *

"He hardly paid attention to you!" Kushina remembers exclaiming.

She immediately clapped her hands over her mouth, but Mito, unlike her teachers, didn't seem to mind her outburst. She recalls being surprised at how laidback Mito seemed to be; the way people talked about her made her seem like more of an ice cube and less of a woman.

"I told myself I didn't like him," Mito confessed. "And I was sure he didn't like me much, either. But to tell you the truth, Kushina, that is probably what made him more fascinating."

* * *

He is too tall, Mito decides, yanking her brush through her hair. Too tall and too slender (almost delicate-looking) and far too attractive – and if she isn't mistaken he doesn't want to marry her at all. He hardly looked at her, for Kami's sake, too caught up in his argument with that other man (Mito doesn't like him either. He sets her on edge) – and from what she'd heard of the conversation, he hadn't even remembered the betrothal whatsoever – he'd only been expecting the papers cementing the treaty between their villages –

"Mito-sama," Kaori approaches and takes the brush from her. "Are you alright?"

Mito stares at her reflection in the mirror – pointed chin, straight nose, large eyes – and her hair, long and thick and red – and she decides if Hashirama Senju does not find her attractive he must be a monk.

"I don't like him," Mito announces, as if the louder she says it the more convincing it will be, and Kaori sets the hairbrush down, opening her arms. Mito sets her cheek against Kaori's shoulder.

"You hardly know anything about him," Kaori tells her, and Mito purses her lips.

"You can tell a lot about a person the first time you meet them," she declares, "and I can tell that I don't like him."

* * *

"Your ladies," Kaori says, inclining her head toward the four women standing beside her.

Mito puts her brush down and carefully caps her ink bottle so she does not spill it. The strokes of the seal of summoning glisten on the paper. It is one of the earliest seals children from Whirlpool are taught. Mito thinks she is rather out of practice.

"Kana Hyuuga," Kaori introduces the first. Kana bows her head. She is a small, petite woman who looks to be in her mid-twenties.

"Hitomi Sarutobi," is the next one. Her light brown hair is pulled back in a chignon so tight it hurts Mito's head to look at it: but her face softens when she smiles and lowers her head.

"Azumi Yamanaka," is the prettiest of the four, eyes a brighter blue than Mito's, a full mouth and dainty hands being the least of her various charms.

"And Yuuka Uchiha," Kaori gestures to the last girl, who sinks into a bow. When she raises her head Mito sees a pale, heart-shaped face, eyes so dark they are almost black, and a thin-lipped mouth that is wry even in repose. There is something about her that Mito can't put a finger on – but it gives her the strangest feeling, something akin to sorrow – and then she smiles, and her face lights up.

* * *

"I can't believe Hokage-sama set the wedding date a month from now," Azumi proclaims, and Mito wonders, for the hundredth time, how she can talk with pins in her mouth. They are sitting around the table in Mito's room, sewing. Mito schools her face into a neutral expression. She has always disliked needlework – she learned because it makes her eyes keener and broadens her patience.

Also, Kaori never took 'no' for an answer.

"I mean," Azumi continues, adding another panel to Mito's _uchikake_ (the silk is red. Gold butterflies for joy, cranes for good fortune, swallows for fertility) "if I were him I'd have married you in a heartbeat, Mito-san."

Mito did away with the '-samas' two hours into their acquaintance, and was pleased with her success, which she had never been able to attain where Kaori was concerned.

She laughs, "Thank you for the vote of confidence, Azumi-san."

"For us, however," Hitomi Sarutobi says. Her voice is surprisingly soft for such a stern-looking woman. "It's fortunate." She inclines her head at Mito's unsewn _uchigi_ panels - brightly colored yellows and greens, pinks – set carefully next to each other. Mito hates the ceremony of it, and looking at the layers, the thought of wearing the _juunihitoe_ is aggravating, the elaborate brocade _uchikake_ especially terrifying. Mito is sure before the day is out she will have melted into nothing more than a puddle (wearing an elaborate costume, of course).

She thinks longingly of Whirlpool, where, at this point in the summer, the canal, a stone's throw away from the house, will be warm enough for Mito, dressed in her shift and _yukata_ (oh, the glory!), to swim. She knows there is a river – the Nakano – here in Leaf; she saw it, tantalizingly blue, on her first day in the village – but her current living arrangement is a guest-house in the Senju compound, and she is told she is quite a walk away from it. Mito does not mind the walk but Kaori does, and when she pressed her point, the Whirlpool diplomat, Akira-san, explained to her quite firmly, that it would not do for the future First Lady (the term is so ostentatious) to go traipsing through the village to go swimming (Kami, how scandalous).

The formality, Akira-san, further clarified, was because the daimyo of Fire Country (among other important people) would be attending the wedding, and as it is the first major event to occur in the village since Hidden Leaf's founding, it is important to make a 'good first impression'.

Being the daughter of a village head Mito cannot dispute the importance of good impressions, and besides, she would never dream of complaining, at least not out loud.

This is what she has been preparing for her whole life.

* * *

"I can't imagine doing something like that," Kushina had interrupted. "You were so brave, Mito-sama. Giving up your life for someone you don't know – a sacrifice like that – I don't think I could make it – "

"But," Mito said, blue eyes soft, "you are making a much greater sacrifice, Kushina. You are far braver than I ever was."

* * *

A week passes, during which Mito talks, sews, and sometimes walks out in the gardens. Hitomi Sarutobi, who used to be a Senju and the Hokage's cousin, remarks apologetically that the grounds around the clan buildings aren't complete yet; there hasn't been enough time and they are sorry Mito has to see them anything less than complete (and perfect).

Mito, used to the precise, disciplined walkways around Whirlpool, finds the huge, gnarled trees hung with rose-vines, the little bridges with knots whirling out of their frames, the saplings set in what, at first sight, may seem haphazard formations but on closer inspection reveal an artistry that is awe-inspiring utterly fascinating.

Hitomi tells her it is all Hashirama Senju's doing; the village's Hokage has been the Senju clan head for less than two years but already the houses, walkways, and the very personalities of his people show the mark of his influence.

Mito realizes there is much more to Hashirama Senju than she first realized – obviously far from just another pretty face.

She doesn't have many opportunities to find out more, however – the Hokage is rarely to be found within the compound, and when he is he is surrounded by people – and so all Mito has discovered is that he is kind to everyone who speaks to him and thoughtful in his replies to their questions.

Mito wonders if she will die of curiosity.

* * *

Akira-san delivers the invitation to Hokage Tower.

* * *

Mito sits seiza in front of the low table, reminding herself to take deep breaths. She adjusts her collar. Today, she is wearing a cream-colored _tsukesage_, red peonies scattered over the silk, matching her obi.

The sound of cicadas chirping drifts through the open window, and a warm breeze whispers against the woodwork. The kettle, resting on the brazier, is within hand's reach, the _natsume_ set just in front of her. Incense sticks burn in the alcove; the room smells of sandalwood and tea.

It is a few moments after sunset, and Mito is rediscovering her initial irritation with him and telling herself that she isn't going to sit like this all night when she hears footsteps on the verandah, the click-click of geta against wood disrupting the relative quiet. A knock resounds against the _shoji _panels; Mito slides the door open and bows.

"Hokage-sama, welcome," Mito tells her guest. "It is an honor to have you visit."

The tatami mats rustle as Hashirama Senju steps into the room. He smiles, fixing dark eyes on hers and bows in return, keeping his gaze on her face the whole time.

"Uzumaki-san," he says. "It is my pleasure."

Mito replies to this with a nod and gestures towards the cushion set in front of the table. "Please, sit."

He sits cross-legged; Mito settles herself across from him and sets the plate of _dango_ and another of _wasanbon_ in front of him.

"Please help yourself," she says. Blood, sweat and tears, she thinks, went into the making of these – and hours away from her scrolls, which she is sure she can't forgive.

She watches him pick up the skewer, carefully so the _mitarashi_ sauce does not drip onto his clothing (a red silk _kosode_ belted with a silvery-black sash and black _hakama_) and bites into the _dango_, bright white teeth (is that even natural) flashing.

Mito inwardly rolls her eyes at herself.

"This is absolutely delicious, Uzumaki-san," the Hokage tells her, the most appreciative look Mito has ever seen gracing his features, "you are incredible."

Mito plucks her sleeve demurely. "I had a lot of help," she says, ducking her head and looking at him through her lashes.

Forgiven already? the sly voice in her mind pipes up, and Mito tells it to hush . You're not very good at feigning disinterest, the voice persists. Mito ignores it.

He looks at her, a curious expression on his face, and Mito realizes with a start he has no idea what she's trying to do (or maybe she's even worse at the 'seduction game' than she thought she was; not much of a kunoichi at all). She is torn between feeling utterly foolish and giving into the laughter bubbling up within her, her face heating up.

"Uzumaki-san," Hashirama says, "forgive my forwardness, but are you – " Mito's heart rises in her throat; she does not like where this is going, "trying to – ah – lead me on?"

Mito can't help it; she laughs – a very unladylike exclamation of mirth – and immediately claps her hands over her mouth.

"Oh – I'm so sorry," she says, "I don't know what came over me – "

"No," Hashirama says, a little crease between his eyebrows, "it's fine – I was just," he falls silent for a moment and then a flush appears over his cheekbones and he lowers his face into his hands, "I suppose it would be extremely brazen of me to say I don't mind?"

"Brazen of _you_? Hokage-sama, I – "

"Please," he looks up at her, "it's Hashirama."

Mito bites her lip; suddenly, the low table set between them isn't much of a distance at all.

"Hashirama-san," she begins, slowly, and he shakes his head.

"You probably had a dreadful first impression of me," he says gently, "and I apologize profoundly for that, and while I know ours is a betrothal settled by our parents, I would – like for us to be friends, at least, and then – maybe – "

His gaze finds Mito's and holds. His eyes are a gray so dark they are almost black, his lashes as long as Mito's own.

Mito finds she is suddenly out of her depth. She swallows, gathering her thoughts. See, her mental voice chides her, I told you you weren't any good at acting.

"It doesn't hurt to try," Hashirama prompts. "We're going to be the leaders of this village, Uzumaki-san, you and I, and I'd really like it if we could work together for the betterment of our people – I've heard you're a genius with Whirlpool fuinjutsu, Uzumaki-san – "

"If I'm to refer to you by name, I'd like for you to call me by mine," Mito interjects. She gives him a smile – the first real smile she has smiled since she walked into Hidden Leaf. She wonders if he knows how good a politician he is.

His eyes soften and his mouth curves upward, and if he was beautiful before he is even more so now.

"Mito," he says, "It would be an honor to have you help me serve our people." He holds a hand out to her, as if they are equals and she is not just a woman and a kunoichi and hesitantly, Mito takes it.

His fingers are long and calloused and his palm is warm; his hands, as he brings up the other one to enclose hers in both of his, dwarf hers.

Mito smiles at him. "I would be glad to," she says. He makes no move to release her hand.

"Would you," Mito says, "like some tea now?"

In the next room, Azumi, pressing her head against the panels, shakes her head. "They're laughing again," she says, her slender eyebrows creased in a frown. "Is that a good thing? I didn't know Mito-san could laugh like that!"

Kana Hyuuga purses her lips, her needle flying nimbly through the fabric pooled in her lap. "Come away from the door, Azumi-san, and stop prying; it's rude."

"As if you aren't curious! Oh, Mistress Hyuuga," Azumi says good-naturedly, "possessor of the Byakugan: would you be so kind as to tell us what is going on?"

Kana smiles despite herself. "No," she says, "that would be a misuse of my ability."

Azumi sighs. "You're all like old women," she tells them, "you ought to have fun every once in a while."

* * *

When Hashirama walks through the door later in the evening, his brother sits up from where he is lying on the couch, putting his book down.

"Weelll," he says, playfully, surveying Hashirama's bright eyes, "somebody had a good time."

Hashirama slides off his haori. "Very funny," he says, "reading _The Tale of Genji_ again? What is this, the tenth time?"

"Eleventh, actually," Tobirama informs him with a sniff, "it's a work of art, I assure you – and don't change the subject!"

* * *

He finds out through Hitomi that Mito misses swimming, and the next day there is a small lake behind her house, trees set around it, shielding it from prying eyes.

Mito, waking up to Azumi's excited clamoring, pulling on a robe and rushing out with her sees little white peaks drifting over the surface, breaking on the bank, the trailing branches of a giant sakura tree skimming the surface.

"They tell me you're the God of Shinobi," Mito tells him the next time she sees him. Kaori and Akira-san have decided it is alright for Mito to see Hashirama before the wedding ceremony – with certain limits, of course, "and that, like the Rikudo, wherever you walk, the world comes to life."

Hashirama looks away. "I'm not a god," he tells her softly. "I'm not even much of a man. There are so many things I wish I could do – that I can't."

* * *

She nearly collides with Madara Uchiha while walking in the compound one day. She is crossing the bridge towards her rooms and he seems to be coming from the direction of the main house. She is pulled to a stop just short of running into him, Yuuka's cautious hand in the crook of her elbow.

He is not as tall as Hashirama but the sheer presence of him is overwhelming, and his face is impassive (apart from the twist to his eyebrows). He looks from Mito to Yuuka; Mito notices the other girl dip her head.

"Hime-sama," Madara gives her a little bow. His voice is a rich baritone. "Yuuka," and then he strides past them, towards the gate.

"I should go home," Yuuka says quietly, "I apologize, Mito-san – may I – "

"Home?" Mito looks at her. "Of course you may, Yuuka – but why? Is it because of Madara Uchiha? Do you know him well?"

Yuuka smiles at Mito. "Yes," she says, "he's my husband. I am so sorry, Mito-san; I'll see you tomorrow," and she, too, turns and walks towards the exit, leaving a stunned Mito standing on the bridge behind her.

Just beyond the gate Yuuka catches up with Madara; if Mito squints she can see him stop and look down at her – Yuuka lifts her head, her hair falling away from her forehead. Mito can see the smile that crosses Madara's face despite there being several meters between her and the gate. Yuuka places a hand on his shoulder. Her lips move; Madara shakes his head. Yuuka's shoulders sink. She presses her face against his sleeve; he runs a hand over her head.

As they recede into the distance a breeze ruffles Madara's hair, lifting it away from his back. The Uchiha crest gleams in the sunlight.

* * *

"You didn't tell me he was married!" Mito tells Hashirama, who is diligently copying the seal she has drawn him onto a piece of paper.

"Tell you who was married?" Hashirama says absently, his face furrowed in concentration, "show me that stroke again – the sixth one."

Mito picks up her brush. "Here, it's like this," and she traces the curve out, "and by 'he' I mean Madara Uchiha."

"Oh," Hashirama says, looking up at her, "I didn't think to. Isn't Yuuka-san one of your companions?"

"Yes," Mito replies, "she is – and yesterday I found out she's the Uchiha _matriarch_." She can't keep the indignation from her voice, although she isn't sure why she's indignant at all.

"All of your ladies are village clan heads' wives," Hashirama explains, "Hitomi Sarutobi is Sasuke Sarutobi's wife – he's the head of the Sarutobi clan – Kana Hyuuga is – "

"I know that," Mito says, "but I didn't think _Madara Uchiha_ – "

Hashirama gives her a slightly exasperated smile, "What, you too?" he says, and before she can ask what he means he continues, "the Uchiha have always married young, Mito." He places a hand on Mito's shoulder and shakes her a little. "What are you thinking about, anyway? I need you right here – you have to teach me this seal before the afternoon's up or word will go around the so-called God of Shinobi can't learn a simple fuinjutsu."

Mito raises her eyebrows at him. "That would be a catastrophe indeed."

* * *

The next two weeks fly by. Mito's _juunihitoe_ is sewn and set aside. Her ladies argue over the proper way to set her hair and paint her face. The guests begin arriving – colorful paper streamers and_ kusudama_ are already suspended all over the village – there will be lanterns, and flowers, too, Azumi informs Mito excitedly as they sit around the table, adding the last stitches to the _uchikake_: Tobirama Senju and Madara Uchiha (Hashirama's 'brothers') are arranging the entertainment – it will be like a festival – clearly, the Hokage means for the wedding to be a symbol of better times to come.

Hashirama is so busy now Mito barely sees him; the village is bustling with all sorts of people invited and uninvited alike. The compound is full to bursting; Hitomi says all the clan compounds are, and Yuuka remarks she hopes nobody else shows, because at this point she and Madara have moved their futon into the corridor; there is no room left in the house.

There is always a steady stream of visitors to her rooms; Mito feels as though she has never done this much sitting still and pouring tea and smiling brightly at strangers. Whirlpool, she realizes, is small, and out-of-the-way, and nowhere near as important as Hidden Leaf.

If not for her clan and their fuinjutsu, it would not even show up on a map.

* * *

The night before the wedding Mito sits in front of the mirror. Kaori pours scented oil into her palms and works it into Mito's hair. She soaks wads of cotton in rosewater and pats down Mito's face, neck and hands.

In the morning they will wash her hair with water infused with orange and roses; meanwhile, it is braided down her back.

Kaori arranges the futon and Mito sets her head on the pillow. She reaches out with her fingers and touches the empty space next to her.

She wonders what it will feel like to have another person lying there.

* * *

"Were you scared?" Kushina asked, the question that of a child and not a kunoichi – but Mito smiled.

"Of course I was scared," she said easily, "there isn't a word that can be applied to what I was feeling – terrified, excited, nervous, thrilled – it was none of those feelings and all of them - when it is your turn, you will understand."

She placed her fingers under Kushina's chin and tilted it up. "Never be ashamed of feeling afraid, Kushina. Bravery is not the absence of fear: it is triumph in spite of it."


	2. Part II

**The Woman from Whirlpool, Part II**

**Character(s):** Mito, Hashirama + Founders, Kushina, Minato

**Pairings:** Hashirama/Mito, Minato/Kushina

**Warnings:** Sensuality

**Dedication:** For ncfan, who left a comment that inspired me to try and see if I could really write Mito. I tried: now it is up to you to decide if I succeeded.

* * *

Daybreak is slow in coming. Mito shivers in her shift, her damp hair streaming down her shoulders. Kana sits on her heels behind Mito, quick efficient hands brushing the last of the tangles from Mito's hair, rhythmic strokes sweeping from Mito's head to her ankles in one fluid movement. She collects the fallen and broken strands and, with a twist of her fingers, rolls them up. Kana hitches her _yukata_ up with a hand and steps out towards the garden where Mito's hair will be buried in the ground, nourishing the soil.

Kaori enters the room, carrying a wooden chest, which she sets down at Mito's feet. She places a key on top of it.

"Mito-sama," she says, "Your father had this put in your luggage. He asked me to give it to you."

Mito kneels, hesitant fingers fumbling with the lock. She stops, takes a deep breath, and tries again. The lid is raised open. Inside, the chest is filled to the brim with paper cranes, a note folded into the corner. Mito lifts it out.

_A thousand cranes for the thousand years of happiness I wish you, my daughter._

The kanji is shaky and the ink seems to have blotted and run. Mito feels her eyes well up.

"Should I have them hung in the pavilion?" Kaori asks when Mito makes no move to speak. Mito nods, brushing ineffectually at the tears streaming down her cheeks. Kaori wipes Mito's face.

"Mito-sama," she says gently, "it is fine. Everything is going to be fine."

"I wish he was here," Mito whispers, "I wish – "

"We can't always get what we want, Mito-sama," Kaori brushes Mito's hair away from her face, "but if we cannot make do with what we have happiness will always be elusive. Now don't cry so much; your eyes will swell." She lowers the lid over the cranes and carries the chest out.

* * *

It is a little before noon when Mito is finally deemed ready. The robes of her _juunihitoe_ (twelve, as Kaori had promised) whisper over the floor as she walks, her hands hidden within swathes of silk. Her hair has been pulled back and away from her face, a set of gold combs (an heirloom from Hashirama's mother) holding it in place – her face itself is unrecognizable, white from her hairline to where her throat disappears into her layered collar, her lips painted bright red, her eyelashes thick and dark.

She can hear the sound of drums and the hum of a crowd outside the house; the bridal procession is lined up outside the gates of the compound. Azumi adjusts the outer layer of the _juunihitoe_ (pure white) so that is lies flat; Yuuka brushes a stubborn red lock of hair off Mito's forehead and Hitomi brings out the _tsunokakushi_, setting it over Mito's elaborate hairdo. The combs peek out over the top.

Mito's ladies take their positions behind her; an attendant slides the door open and Mito walks into the dazzling sunlight.

* * *

The only part of the ceremony Mito will remember afterward is the _san-san-kudo_ and how Hashirama's eyes darken as he hands her the _sakazuki_ one by one – heaven, earth, humankind – and beneath the white, Mito flushes a dull red. His fingers whisper at the back of her neck as they turn around – the thud-thud of the drums picks up and a cheer rises up from the swarm of onlookers gathered around the steps to the shrine.

In front of the crowd, Mito takes off the _tsunokakushi_ and slides on the _uchikake_, the cheers growing louder as the gold thread, painstakingly embroidered onto the red, catches the sun.

Hashirama slips his left hand into Mito's right; he raises the other to the crowd, the sleeve of his haori sliding down towards his elbow revealing a lean, brown forearm. His chin is lifted, head thrown back, dark hair glistening, and for a moment Mito cannot really believe she is now _married_ to this man.

* * *

There is a large pavilion set up in the village square, several wooden steps leading up to a pair of _zabuton_ set in front of a pair of _shoji _screens featuring delicate bouquets of sakura. Hashirama keeps a cautionary hand behind Mito's back as she arranges the _juunihitoe_ so she can sit comfortably.

In front of them, the village square has been transformed into an impromptu (or it appears impromptu, but Mito knows a great deal of thought went into the making of it) fair, various stalls and stands all fluttering with richly colored banners have been erected. Mito can now see the band that has been playing; mats have been set with low tables perched over them as seating areas; as Mito watches ushers (who are most likely shinobi enduring yet another exacting mission) seat guests and others carry trays back and forth from the stalls.

"How much – " Mito begins, but Hashirama is standing up to greet the daimyo and his wife, who are being shown into the pavilion by Tobirama Senju, who is almost unrecognizable because of the smile stretching his face. He seats the daimyo and then leaves the pavilion, coming back a moment later with a sour-looking man Mito is told is the Fire Country's prime minister.

Mito receives courteous nods and polite greetings with equal poise, smiling at all the right places and asking all the right questions, keeping her hands folded in her lap over the inkblot she had been horrified to discover staining her _uchikake_.

Hashirama, she sees, is in his element; he has the daimyo laughing within moments – even the standoffish minister cracks a smile.

The various clan heads and their wives arrive, Yamanaka Azumi, Mito is not displeased to discover, managing to outshine her in her silver-blue _kurotomesode_. Hitomi shakes her head at the blot on Mito's _uchikake_ before folding the hem so that Mito can move her hands without embarrassing herself.

Servers bring platters into and out of the pavilion; the air is thick with the smell of smoke and spices, and after the first four dishes Mito loses count. The back of her neck is sticky with sweat despite the various fan-bearing ninja stationed around the tent.

About an hour in, another guest is lead to the pavilion – Madara Uchiha, too, has managed to conjure up a smile for the occasion, one that does not falter even when Hashirama tells him he is almost unforgivably late (granted, the laughter in Hashirama's voice clearly states that he is joking, and any other reaction would have been foolish). He leans in to wrap his arms around Hashirama in a (congratulatory) embrace; Mito sees him whisper something she cannot make out into Hashirama's ear whereupon Hashirama smiles a little and shakes his head. Madara presses Hashirama's shoulder and then he takes a seat on the Akimichi family head's other side.

Yuuka, dressed in a cream-and-pale-pink kimono, bows to Mito, her eyes bright. "Congratulations, Mito-san," she says softly, "I wish you the best of happiness." She squeezes Mito's hand and sits down.

* * *

By late afternoon, the square is cleared to make way for the _kabuki_ actors, wearing their extravagant costumes and vivid face paint.

Later, Mito will not remember the details of the play – just that, half way through, when the lovers announce that they will rather die and be reunited in death than live and be separated in life, Hashirama turns his head sharply towards where Madara is seated, eyes fixed on the play.

The weight of Hashirama's look is unnerving; Mito sees Madara flinch (almost imperceptibly), but although Hashirama holds the gaze for several moments Madara does not turn to meet it.

With sunset the lanterns are lit, bright licks of flame casting red and gold pools of light over the ground; the shadows grow long and deep and with the end of the play the chirp of cicadas rises over the square.

Kaori helps Mito stand and leads her towards a room in the back of the pavilion where Kana Hyuuga spreads out Mito's final outfit for the day – a deep black _furisode_ with an assortment of flowers patterned over the silk. Together, Kana and Kaori pin and tuck the kimono into place; Kaori wraps the obi; towards the back, she secures it with an elaborate clamshell knot.

With a wet cloth, Kaori wipes Mito's face free of the make-up; this is the last time she will wear a _furisode_ – the last time she will be considered a girl instead of a woman – her final act as Mito Uzumaki and her first as Mito Senju.

(In an ironic twist on events, she will be remembered as Mito Uzumaki. She will be remembered as her own person.)

* * *

The crowd roars as she steps out again. Some of the feeling has come back into her legs and feet and Mito finds that smiling and waving is easier when one's extremities do not feel as though they are about to fall off. As she takes her seat again, folding her legs to the side on the _zabuton_ so that they do not fall asleep again she finds Hashirama looking at her, eyes soft.

"Much better," he says, lifting a hand and tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, "I could hardly see you behind all of that paint. Now you look like the Mito I've come to love."

Mito's breath catches in her throat.

"Hokage-sama, hime-sama," Tobirama Senju's voice sounds from the middle of the square. He is standing in front of a small group of men dressed in dark _kosode_ and _hakama_ belted with dark red obi. Folded across their backs are giant red flags; a little behind them, a set of _taiko_ drums rest on their stands – lantern-bearers converging onto the group reveal the drummers poised behind their instruments and an empty stool sits by them.

Tobirama bows, the action revealing the elaborate _shamisen_ strapped to his back. "Daimyo-sama," he says, "on this most auspicious day of my brother's wedding," applause from the crowd, "our clansmen and I would be privileged to perform in honor of the occasion." He stands with his hands behind his back, feet shoulder-width apart, and Mito realizes he is asking Hashirama's permission to begin.

"Mito-san, you are going to enjoy this," Hitomi whispers into her ear.

Hashirama nods. "You may start," he says solemnly; seated by his side Mito can see the gleam in his eye; the ghost of a smile flickers across Tobirama's face and he retreats to the stool, settling on it and resting his _shamisen_ on his knee, the pick held loosely in his right hand.

The first, slow, mournful notes float into the air, everything motionless except for the pick being pulled across the _shamisen's_ strings – and then the drums start up, and the flag bearers leap forward, a whirl of red and black to the throbbing of the _taiko_ and the easy, liquid melody of the _shamisen_, slow at first and then faster – picking up speed till the dancers are a blur of color set to a song.

Mito cannot put a name to the movements – they are like a dance, but not a dance, a fight, but not a fight – powerful, controlled actions speeding up and slowing down with the music; she can feel her heart pulsating in time with the _shamisen_, the pounding of the _taiko _resounding in her very core, harsh shouts from the drummers punctuating the air.

Hashirama taps his fingers on his knee in time to the music; he turns his head to Mito his smile widening at the look on her face.

"Enjoying yourself?"

"What is this?" Mito says, and he laughs a little at the awe in her voice.

"Oh," he says, "this is what we Senju are famous for." His cheek dimples when he smiles, the flickering lantern-light throwing the depression into sharp relief.

"Really," Mito says, feigning consideration, tapping her chin with her finger, "I thought you were known for your incredible battle prowess."

Hashirama places a hand on her back, setting his face next to hers, pointing out the individual dancers' movements.

"The flag," he says, "symbolizes a sword – we used to use real swords but the flags are more eye-catching – " he grins in response to Mito swatting his shoulder with the back of her hand, not taking his eyes off the dancers, "and the movements are _kata_ – you'll see it if you follow them closely – exaggerated for the sake of performance. That's not to say they can't still kill a man, though." His eyes crinkle.

The music comes to a halt, the last, quivering note reverberating in the air, and the performers, landing on their heels, bring their feet and hands together and bow as one.

When the applause has died down the daimyo gets to his feet, a little stiffly, and Mito bites back a smile.

"That was an excellent performance," he proclaims. He raises his cup, turning towards Hashirama and Mito. Shinobi move through the crowds, replenishing people's cups. "A toast," the daimyo says once everyone has received a refill, "to a prosperous marriage and a successful village!"

* * *

Mito sets her hand in the crook of Hashirama's arm, stepping into the _norimono_. She is so tired she does not protest sitting in a palanquin for a distance that can be covered in mere minutes – but there's a growing knot of apprehension under her ribs that is keeping her from relaxing.

Her _husband _– the word is strange on Mito's tongue – stands by the door, his hand on the frame, conducting an argument in whispers with his brother, who stands, mulishly, with his arms crossed, in the middle of the road.

The square is mostly empty now, with only a few stragglers still present, and it is quiet – so if she strains her ears she can hear what they are saying, but she finds she doesn't really care. Mito concentrates on breathing, tucking her hands into her sleeves. Since the sun set it has gotten progressively cooler, and now, the air is chilly.

A moment later Tobirama rolls his eyes and apparently concedes, because he pulls his _haori_ on and moves toward the front of the _norimono_. He walks just like Hashirama, Mito notices, bent slightly forward with his head tucked in, looking at his feet, his hands tucked into his pockets.

Hashirama turns towards the palanquin, pulling himself inside. His eyes are heavy with weariness and Mito feels a pang of anxiety.

"I'm sorry for making you wait," Hashirama says to her, leaning back against the seat. He looks after his brother's retreating figure. "He is going to be the death of me," he remarks, closing his eyes. The palanquin bearers secure the door and move to lift the _norimono_ off the ground.

"He annoys you?" Mito asks for the sake of making conversation.

"Oh, Kami doesn't he," despite the words, there is nothing but fondness in Hashirama's voice, "but I can never stay angry with him; he's my brother and I love him and we're shinobi so anyone we love is another way to get to us – and that is terrifying, Mito – absolutely terrifying."

* * *

It goes like this: the house is quiet when Mito precedes Hashirama over the threshold, the corridor dim, only a single candle burning in the hall. Hashirama whispers a prayer and lights more candles, bathing the narrow walkway in flickering light.

Hashirama pads barefoot down the hall, sliding off his _haori _and loosening the collar of his _kosode_ as he walks. Mito, carefully lifting her skirts, follows him down to the last room in the hall. He makes a ceremony of sliding the door open; despite her exhaustion she laughs at his description of the _room as Ryuu-sama's cave out of which she, the fair maiden, will never be allowed to leave_ and his warning that _it isn't really much so please don't be disappointed_.

There are candles already lit within the room and he watches as she steps inside, a slightly anxious expression on his face.

There is a little alcove to her left; a low table with paper and ink set on the surface – a scroll bearing the inscription _if the current sinks, it will rise again_ has been hung in the alcove above the table; walking closer Mito can see incense sticks beneath the inscription.

To her right, the _futon_ has been spread over a wooden dais, elevating it from the ground; the wood is dark and polished, matching the edging on the tatami mats underfoot, and, in the center of the room there is a little pond set into the floor, lily pads and blossoms drifting across the surface – the _shoji_ panels making up the long wall towards the back of the house has been slid open – the trailing branches of a willow sway back and forth in the breeze – the first tree of a glen-like forest, narrow-close-growing trunks rising upward, forming a canopy over the moss-carpeted ground.

"Well, Ryuu-sama," Mito clears her throat, "what if I escape through the back door?"

She feels him come up behind her; he sets his chin on her shoulder and wraps his arms around her. It is, Mito realizes, the first time he has really touched her – but somehow, the feeling of his chest against her back is the most natural sensation in the world.

"Do you like it?" His breath is warm, ghosting over the shell of her ear.

"It's a room for a queen," Mito says.

"You are a queen," Hashirama informs her, and he turns his hand palm up, and as she watches fine wooden tendrils erupt from the tips of his fingers, intertwining, vine-like and curving inward into a coronet, tiny leaves sprouting from the stems and as she watches flowers unfurl themselves from within the leaves, so delicate she can see the veins running through the petals.

It is her first time seeing the _mokuton _in action – as Hashirama breaks the jutsu, Mito thinks second-hand accounts cannot do it justice – the sensation of it, the humming of pure-life energy slowly increasing and then flaring suddenly (Mito is reminded of lightning crackling through the air). The broken skin over the pads of his fingers knits itself together and Hashirama leads Mito over to the futon and sits her down, standing in front of her so that his knees are against hers.

He removes the combs from her hair, running his fingers through and disentangling the strands from the updo. His fingers are cool against her scalp; Mito feels a shiver traverse the length of her spine. Hashirama parts her hair to the side sets the coronet carefully on her head, placing it so that it does not fall.

He kneels on the tatami mat, looking up at her; Mito reaches out and places her hands on either side of his face, stunned at her own brazenness – he smiles, covering her hand with his own and Mito tilts her chin downward, her hair falling forward as she bends forward –

"Hokage-sama!" There is a crash in the hall and the sound of feet pounding against the wooden floor; Hashirama mutters something under his breath. "Hokage-sama – " the door skids open, slamming against the frame, and Mito winces as the paper tears, "I apologize for the disturbance," the words come tumbling out of the shinobi's mouth, "but you are needed at the daimyo's rooms at once; there has been an assassination attempt on his life – "

Mito watches Hashirama stand; his shoulders straighten and his face sets, "do you know who did it?" he asks, his (gentle, quiet) voice stony, and the ninja nods, "a shinobi from Water," he says, "the watchmen were able to apprehend him but he had managed to enter the inner chamber before – "

Mito stands, retrieves Hashirama's _haori_ and drapes it over his shoulders; he starts, glances down at her, and then his face relaxes and he curls his arms into the sleeves.

"I'm sorry," he tells her, and presses a kiss to her hair – and then he is gone.

Mito picks up the pieces of the shattered _shoji_ frame and wonders if there is a way to put them together.

* * *

He is back before dawn, slipping quietly into the room. Mito lies motionlessly, on her side, her face turned away from the door. She can hear the tatami mats rustle as he crosses the room; the mattress dips as he sets his knee on the _futon_.

"Mito?" he whispers. She doesn't move, and he sighs. "Mito – I know you're awake. Don't ignore me, please." He sets a hand on her shoulder and Mito sits up, looking stonily at him. "What," she begins, "do you – "

He cuts her off, closing the distance between them and pressing his mouth to hers, his hands on either side of her face. He smells of sweat and conifers and he tastes like salt.

* * *

A month after the wedding Mito and Kaori share a tearful farewell; Kaori sets out to leave for Whirlpool and her own husband, carrying Mito's missive to her father, and Mito says goodbye to the last of her childhood.

* * *

The sun hung low over the horizon, diffused red through the clouds scattered over the sky.

"It's getting late," Mito said, her voice throaty with overuse, "you should probably get going."

Kushina shot to her feet. "Oh," she exclaimed, "Sakumo-sensei will be wondering where I am! But – Mito-sama," she lowered her voice, tilting her head, "I would like to know the rest of the story – could I come back tomorrow after training?"

Mito looked at her a long moment. "Aren't you tired of this old woman's rambling?"

Kushina emphatically shook her head. "Of course not!" she said, "that's not even possible!"

Mito smiled (it was a sad smile, now that Kushina thinks about it), her eyes bright, and nodded.

Kushina, rushing to the door in the sort of mad frenzy she was so (in)famous for, paused just inside the door, turning around and bowing deeply. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mito-sama!" She left the room, drawing the door closed behind her, and set off for home.

(She remembers Sakumo-sensei hadn't been worried at all; quite the opposite, and Kushina realizes now that he had been expecting her to be late. He may have even hoped the talk would do her good.)

After being dismissed for the day Kushina had made a beeline for Mito's rooms; she found the older woman in much the same way as yesterday – paper cluttering her immediate vicinity, brush in hand – Kushina giggled upon noticing the black smear across Mito's cheekbone (the scrolls she was working on now sit on Kushina's desk – a lifetime's worth of research on Whirlpool fuinjutsu – and while Kushina, in this at least, is a dedicated scholar, she knows it will take another lifetime to learn it all).

"I have ink on my face, don't I?" Mito remarked, looking up, beaming, "how are you today?"

"I'm alright!" Kushina told her, "Sakumo-sensei let us off early. Mito-sama – " Kushina perched herself on Mito's bed, her back against the headboard, "I've been wondering – how did you end up with the _Kyuubi_ sealed inside you? Was it the same way I will? So who was the _jinchuuriki_ before you?"

Mito gave her a wry smile, "if I told you that now," she said, "there wouldn't be a point to the story, now, would there? – unless you really want to know."

"Ah, no – I'd rather hear it in order," Kushina propped her chin on her knees. "What happened next?"

Mito put her brush down. "I was invited to join the council," she said, "I accepted. – I taught basic fuinjutsu to Senju clan children – this was before the Academy was established by the Nidaime – "

* * *

"I think it might be a good idea to establish an archives library," Mito says, folding her hands in her lap, "and to register any new jutsu that are developed, for future reference." She is seated on Hashirama's left, the rest of the council (composed of the clan heads) in a circle around them.

"Don't you think," Sasuke Sarutobi says, "having information like that stored in writing may lead to its misuse?"

Hashirama opens his mouth – Mito lays a surreptitious hand on his knee, "of course," she says, "it certainly is possible – however, at the same time, I believe it may be helpful to have a record system for the village's shinobi and its jutsu – to keep track of things and keep them organized. Like any other tool, Sarutobi-san, information is susceptible to abuse but it is only as dangerous as the person who wields it – and while it is naïve to hope the village never produces a person like that it is a goal to work towards, isn't it?"

Sarutboi nods his head in acknowledgement. "You make a fair point, Hime-sama."

Hashirama clears his throat. "Are there any other objections?"

There are none; Hashirama presents Mito with a scroll and a brush, "My handwriting is awful," he states flippantly, completely unashamed, "so I'm afraid you'll have to be the one to write things down, wife-of-mine."

The Nara clan head coughs; Mito sees several amused smiles and refrains from rolling her eyes. She accepts the items and sets brush to paper.

"Well," she tells him, "I'll do it this time, but it looks like we're going to have to work on your handwriting, aren't we?"

* * *

"Keep your elbow off the table," Mito instructs, "and don't hold the brush like that!"

The fifteen-odd children seated around the room giggle to see the Shodai being scolded. He winks at them over Mito's head; unfortunately, she catches the expression, and her eyes narrow as she looks down at him.

"You're mocking me, aren't you," she says flatly.

"I would never," he vows, an utterly guileless look on his face, "that would be unforgivable of me."

Mito is not fooled. "Hashirama," she says dangerously, standing over him with her arms crossed, "the game is up."

Meekly, he picks up the brush, dips the tip in the ink and traces out two perfect characters onto the paper.

"Next time you want me to do something," Mito informs him, "just ask, please."

(Of course, he doesn't learn. Mito finds she doesn't mind.)

* * *

And so a year passes by.

* * *

Kagami Uchiha is born late one night in early May. Mito goes to see Yuuka the next morning, carrying a covered platter of _kashiwamochi_. The baby is tiny (despite being full-term) and his face is all Yuuka – but his hair, already unruly, is his father's.

Yuuka is pale but composed, her dark hair scattered over her pillow, and Mito sits and talks to her for a few moments: how are you, how is everything? and Yuuka beams and answers, her voice quiet but strong, that she is fine, and so is everything else –

And later, Mito will remember her friend in as she is in this moment, because it is the last time she ever sees Yuuka Uchiha smile.

* * *

On the surface, after Madara Uchiha defects, Hidden Leaf hardly changes at all, continuing to prosper and advance steadily.

But Mito's husband becomes quieter and seems to withdraw into himself; while his public persona remains mostly the same, he is weary and haggard when he comes home in the evenings; there are shadows under his eyes that were never there before and Mito, brushing the tangles from his hair one evening, is horrified to discover three, pure white strands just behind his ear.

"Don't pull them out," he tells her, voicing the old superstition that if a gray hair is plucked two more will grow back in its place – and so Mito lets them be, wondering if he means to keep them as a memento of the friend he has lost.

She goes to see Yuuka, who, considered a widow by the clan, is now residing with her parents. Her eyes fill with tears in response to Mito's tentative smile – her once full cheeks are hollow, her eyes swollen – and when Mito extends her arms Yuuka comes without complaint, setting her dark proud head against Mito's shoulder and wrapping her arms around Mito's waist.

She cries wracking, heart-wrenching sobs. Mito holds her till she is spent.

* * *

Slowly, wounds begin to scab – and then Madara attacks the village and Hashirama goes out to meet him – and the injuries are ripped open, fresh lacerations appearing among the old -

-and a pattern emerges: where Madara strikes at Leaf and the Hokage defeats him and returns – twice, thrice, four times – each time Hashirama coming back later and fighting harder and looking wearier than the last.

"Why don't you just kill him?" Mito chokes, her throat raw as she sponges the blood from his body, "just kill him and be done with it!"

He doesn't look at her, staring straight ahead, his eyes blank. "I can't," he whispers. "I can't do that."

"And I can't keep doing this!" Mito cries, "I can't keep waiting here for you to get back, not knowing if you're going to come back at all – if you're going to die and I'm going to – " she breaks off, her breath coming in gasps, trying to keep the anger back in her throat.

Hashirama leans against her. "I'm sorry," he says softly, turning his head into the crook of her neck. His lashes are damp; Mito feels him shudder. She sets her cheek against his head, winding her arms around his shoulders and supporting him as best as she can. "I'm sorry," Hashirama whispers again, and Mito lets the tears fall.

* * *

The rumor reaches the Leaf before Madara does: that the former Uchiha clan head has tamed the _Kyuubi_, the most fearsome of all the legendary tailed beasts, and that the next time he attacks he will have strength that can be rivaled by no-one.

Mito watches Hashirama's face drain of color; his hands clench into fists till the skin across his palms splits and he bites his lip so hard he draws blood – and she feels a sharp, stabbing pain in her chest, because Hashirama's anger is not directed toward Madara; he is punishing himself.

* * *

A passing comment from Tobirama (who is also beginning to resemble the living dead) is what makes Mito resolve to find out more about sealing chakra.

* * *

It comes faster she thought it would.

She waits till Hashirama leads Madara away from the village and then follows, dressed in (Hashirama's) _kosode_ and trousers and keeping her distance, a precautionary defensive seal activated to ward off the residual shock from the immense amount of chakra being released.

Mito is perched on a giant oak's branch, sending chakra to the soles of her feet to ensure she does not lose her footing, carefully spreading out her materials – wolf-hair brush, black ink infused with herbs, and her scroll, with the preliminary seal already painted on, a single brush stroke away from activation, which Mito, dipping the brush into the ink, adds with a deft flick of her fingers.

She unties the sash from around her waist, lifting the _kosode_ and securing it beneath her breasts, baring her abdomen. She concentrates on the _Kyuubi's_ chakra, fixing the tendrils in her mind and concentrating chakra in her fingertips. The characters leap off the page and to her hands, chakra focused so intently it is visible. She takes a deep breath.

Keep calm, she tells herself – you have to focus, or you'll miss it. The more pragmatic (cowardly) part of Mito tells her that she is being irrational; how can she hope to seal a tailed beast – especially one as powerful as Kurama – within herself in a moment between a battle such as this? –where every time Madara and Hashirama clash, a new rift is created in the landscape, and lightning arcs through the sky? When Kurama is encased within the _Susanoo_, and apart from herself, no-one knows she is there?

Mito sternly tells herself to shut up. She can do this: in theory, it is perfectly reasonable to assume that, should an opportunity arise – a lull in the fight, for example – she can use the image of Kurama's chakra she has imprinted into the seal on her hands to call the beast towards herself.

A wave of chakra flattens her against the tree-trunk – Hashirama's, she registers dimly, and she sees the _Shinsu Senju_ – _the Buddha with a thousand hands_ – rise over the forest. Mito's mouth curls into a smile despite herself, and she reminds herself that she has a job to do, too, and it is not worth risking death to watch Hashirama use senjutsu no matter how much she may want to – at least not before she has sealed Kurama (besides, she is looking forward to seeing the look on his face) –

- and a moment later, Mito's opportunity arrives when, with a massive crash, the _Susanoo_ dissipates, the _Chojo Kebetsu_ smashes into Kurama's face, sending the _Kyuubi_ soaring into Mito. Mito leaps from the tree to avoid a collision, landing gracefully on her feet, just in time to see Kurama crash headlong into the oak.

She retreats several steps while the fox disentangles itself from the wreckage, hissing and spitting, smoke rising from its ears. Mito tugs experimentally at its chakra; Kurama turns in her direction so quickly Mito nearly falls over, struggling to maintain the chakra flow to the seal.

The _Kyuubi_ roars, the impact of its voice alone sending more trees toppling to the ground, creating a space several meters wide. Mito's hair comes undone; she is thrown backward into a tree so hard a crack echoes across the (impromptu) clearing - Kurama pulls free of her control and the seal inactivates, the symbol disappearing off the palm of her hands.

Mito sits up, stifling a groan. She curses under her breath. To reactivate the seal she needs time to concentrate her chakra; she has lost the element of surprise, so to speak, and to start over she'll have to contain Kurama and render it immobile.

Mito takes a deep breath and straightens, ignoring the dull ache spreading across her lower back. She extends her arms, chakra chains erupting from her wrists, wrapping themselves around Kurama's body. The _Kyuubi_ resists, dragging Mito several yards across the ground. Mito summons more chakra, strengthening the chains, biting her lip against the strain.

The chains shorten, forcing Kurama to its knees, and Mito anchors the shackles to the ground, effectively pinning the _Kyuubi_ down. She allows herself a little smile as the fox thrashes ineffectually; there is no weakness in the defense. Mito approaches Kurama, condensing chakra in her hands again; slowly, the seal begins to reappear –

- and Kurama, in a last ditch effort, opens its mouth, a dark sphere of solid chakra rapidly appearing in the air. Mito's eyes widen; she quickly calls up another chain, intending to bind the _Kyuubi's_ mouth closed, but it is too late – Kurama releases the orb and it flares outward, moving towards Mito with the speed of a shooting star.

Mito prays the chains will hold and throws herself sideway, weaving a hand sign as she does so. She misses the brunt of the impact, but it still knocks the breath out of her body and Mito feels several ribs crack. She hits the ground, hard, skidding to a stop on her side.

Her breath coming in hoarse rasps, Mito lifts herself to her hands and knees. Kurama looks straight at her, teeth bared in a snarl.

"What makes you think you can take me on and win, whelp?" Kurama's voice pounds against Mito's ears; she struggles to her feet, pressing a hand against her ribcage.

"Because," Mito says, more confidently than she feels, "I never lose."

Behind Kurama, Mito's shadow clone raises its hands, emblazoned with the seal, and places them on the fox, taking a firm hold on the _Kyuubi's_ chakra. Kurama growls – but pinned to the ground as it is, it cannot combat the removal of its chakra, and Mito, rising unsteadily to her feet, disperses the shadow clone; before dissolving, the clone transfers the chakra link.

Mito strengthens the connection and watches, impassively, as the great beast is slowly pulled towards the seal emerging on Mito's abdomen, fighting every step of the way, its physical form unraveling till it is nothing but curls of chakra coiling towards Mito's body.

Mito falls to her knees once the sealing is complete. She is heady with the sudden inflow of foreign chakra, her chest heaving – and every breath is agony. Mito coughs. Her fingers, when they come away from her mouth, are slick with blood.

* * *

There are raindrops pattering against her skin – and someone is shaking her shoulder, calling her name loudly, insistently. Mito struggles to place a name to the – vaguely familiar – voice. Dimly, she recalls a lean, tall man with dark hair down to his waist – ah, Mito thinks. She knows this man – she loves this man – Hashirama – Hashirama Senju – and he sounds as though he is in pain, Mito grasps, and she feels worry twist her middle.

She comes to fully, lying on her back in the middle of the _Kyuubi_-made clearing, rainwater trickling into her mouth and soaking her hair. Her eyes focus on Hashirama's face, inches away from her own, his eyes wide and dazed, his mouth twisted unnaturally. He is missing a sleeve, Mito notices, dried blood speckling his arm, but otherwise he seems miraculously unharmed. Laughter bubbles up in Mito's throat; it comes out sounding like a gurgle. "Hashirama," Mito says hoarsely, "you're alright."

Hashirama's eyes harden, dark with fury, "what did you think you were doing?" he hisses at her, and behind the anger there is concern, and hurt – Mito hesitantly lifts a hand, brushing the back of her fingers against his face.

"It had to be sealed," she says as he covers her hand with his own, squeezing her knuckles, "and this way it can help you – help the village – " she coughs, and the alarm in Hashirama's eyes grows more pronounced. He places an analytical hand on her chest, his brow furrowing.

"You have four broken ribs," he informs her crisply, "and one of them has penetrated your right lung. – Mito, you idiot – you could have died! Why didn't you tell me what you were – "

Mito presses a finger against his lips. "You would have stopped me," she says, "and I had to do this."

Hashirama lowers her hand, avoiding her gaze. "I don't have enough chakra to heal you completely," he tells her, "but I should be able to patch you up enough so that you don't die on me till we get home."

He works quietly, efficiently; within moments Mito can sit up. She is aware that she is filthy and looks the part, her hair caked in mud and grime, but there is something about the way he is turned away from her that makes her hurt in a way that has nothing to do with her cracked ribs.

She lays a hesitant hand on his back; she feels him stiffen under her touch. "Hashirama?" she murmurs, her eyes suddenly stinging.

He doesn't answer, gathering up her fallen equipment – ink, brush, scrolls.

"Hashirama?" Mito repeats, louder.

"What?" his voice is flat, his back still to her. Mito removes her hand.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly. In the back of her mind, she registers this is the first time she has apologized to him, instead of the other way around.

"Sorry for what, Mito?" Hashirama turns to look at her. "For not telling me about your suicide mission? For planning the suicide mission in the first place? For going through with it? You almost died, Mito – "

"But I didn't," Mito interrupts him, and Hashirama gives her an incredulous look.

"Excuse me?"

"I didn't die," Mito says, more strongly, "and I'm not the only one who goes on suicide missions, you know, Hashirama, so that isn't a fair point, and if you knew about it you wouldn't have let me try, so that isn't a fair point either."

Hashirama studies her for a moment, his eyes glittering. "I almost lost you, too," he whispers, and the _too_ jolts Mito to her very core; he had done it, then, the one thing he couldn't bring himself to do and now here he is, sitting in front of her, soaked to the skin and wounded and hurt but alive, almost painfully so – and Mito leans forward and brushes the hair out of his face and the tears from his eyes.

He reaches for her then, pulling her against him, mindful of her injuries. He lowers his face into her hair.

Overhead, the rain stops, sunrays breaking through the clouds, and as the mist clears, a rainbow arcs through the sky.

* * *

Sometimes, during the night, Mito wakes with a start and reaches out, blindly, to her side; her fingers meet Hashirama's back and she relaxes, secure in the knowledge that he is still here and they are still safe.

It is one of the many things being Kurama's _jinchuuriki_ has changed about her – but they are little things – minor things, and mostly, Mito can truthfully state that sealing Kurama into herself hasn't affected her much at all – she is still Mito, the woman from Whirlpool, fuinjutsu specialist, Hidden Leaf's First Lady, and a girl who adores her husband.

But then, Hashirama Senju is easy to love.

And that, Mito thinks, makes all the difference.

* * *

"That was a beautiful story," Kushina said, her eyes shining, "when I grow up, Mito-sama, I want a love story just like yours."

Mito tweaked her nose, smiling. "I wish you better one," she said, as Kushina slid off the bed and stretched her arms over her head. "A thousand years of happiness to you, my daughter," Mito said, and Kushina, bending over to lift her bag from where she had left it, flashed Mito a smile.

"I'll come see you tomorrow, Mito-sama," Kushina promised, and she did.

* * *

Tomorrow and every day after, Kushina smiles wistfully, fingering the string of cranes draped over her dresser, till the end.

(Hashirama Senju died, peacefully, in his sleep, towards the end of the Nidaime Hokage's rule. His wife followed ten years later.)

Kushina draws the blinds and walks over to the bed, where Minato has fallen asleep, his head resting awkwardly against the bedstead, his book still open over his knees. Kushina shakes her head, picks up the book, setting it on the bedside table, and adjusts his pillow so that he does not wake up with a crick in his neck. She pulls the covers over him; Minato shifts and mumbles something; Kushina makes out her name.

Kushina smiles, the memory replaying, unbidden – her twelve-year-old self, toothy grin plastered on her face - _when I grow up, Mito-sama, I want a love story just like yours_, and Mito's answering smile, _I wish you a better one._

She sets her head against her pillow, reaching out to turn off the light.

Kushina sighs.

It was remarkable, really, how _her hair had still been red_.

* * *

**A/N**: A link to a glossary of terms can be found on my profile page. Thank you for reading.


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